Good Boy
by moon1010
Summary: Seasons pass as a new friend is received and they both meet there fate Kid!lock


**Hello everyone! This is a bit out of character. the age difference between them both is five years. and the chapters will switch to different years and seasons. so yeah, tell me what you think of it.**

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One: March

Birds seemed to like the time of March, maybe it was how the sunshine seemed to sprinkle, or maybe it was how the smell of the season moved its way in. It was a time for fun, and running as the birds flew, according to a certain boy who lived in a quite immense house that seemed to be empty all the time. The house was never filled with any fun; the only adventure he had got was when he went outside. He sometimes pretended to fly with the birds and in the process of airplaning his arms, soaring through the empty sky, he would always end up clumsily tripping over his own feet and falling onto his face. With to many cuts and bruises to play outside any more he wondered into the empty abysses of the house.

The house was perched right outside of town where if you listened hard enough you could hear the beeps of the cars. The house itself stood at two stories, each room larger then the next and even more desolated then the last. The only thing he ever saw in the seized in house was his mother's friends or his father's business partners.

Crawling up the stairs of the giant house the dainty five year old shoved his head into the door way of an oversized bedroom. His eyes started to sparkle when the irises of the small boy landed on his brother. Giddily he slid through the doorway swinging his hands behind his tiny back and hooking his fingers together gently. He swayed back and forth eyeballing his brother. He widened his eyes learning this technique to make people go faster. He watched as his brother gritted his teeth and place his pencil down on the table.

His room was set up so neatly and so tidy. The window on the opposite end of the room had the mellow maroon curtains drawn back letting the afternoon light flow in. To the left wall his bed was orderly made, the pillow fluffed and prompted. The sheets were all pulled crisply across the mattress. A chest, full of something he was not allowed to know the contents of, lay at the foot of his bed. To the right was a desk where he was currently studying getting ready for the sixth grade. There were no obnoxious papers floating around, nor any books that weren't yet balanced perfectly.

"My…" he whispered slightly, nipping at his small pink tongue.

Mycroft turned loosely in his chair. His eyes pierced through his small brother, he first narrowed his eyes then closing then to take a deep sigh of irritation. "Not now, go away." He said pointing to the door, obviously annoyed and provoked of his study time.

"But don't you want to play?" the small one asked letting his shoulders drop like falling tears.

Mycroft turned to his desk once more and went on with a stern chilling "no"

Slumping his head like an omega pup, he tramped down the long hallway that seemed to grow more and more as a slouched along. Rooms were directly across the east, the front of the house facing the west. On the second floor nine rooms sealed next to each other. It was almost symmetrical of how there were two corner rooms on either end. To the west was two grand staircases, they curved down to meet each other, each carpeted a rich shade of red. The first corner room to the left was a tiled bathroom that he and Mycroft shared. The floor was always spotless and shinning like the marble counter. A bath was placed off to the corner, a chiseled window shined above it. The room was always cold and drowsy, yet it seemed to steal the second room's thunder that shared the wall cornered to it. That room was empty as the house, the only thing hanging in it was a string that, if pulled, led to the attic. The other rooms belonged to Mycroft, himself, guests (like they had any), his father's office and parent's bedroom. The second floor was oh so much a bore.

The young boy drugged along his way, forcing himself on his toes once he came up the corner room that was his father's office. Resourcefully he made his way up slowly to peek through the key hole. As unbalanced as he was he got a good look inside, the two chairs that weren't his fathers were kept up with men in suites and glossy shoes, one other stood by the window looking out. His father, who was behind the desk, his meaty hands waffled and placed on his head, was talking. It was all business and to the boy's unfortunate, nothing he could understand.

His father rarely stepped out of this locked office; he hardly would say a word to either of his sons or his wife. He would come out occasionally and step outside on the patio garden to have a smoke, atypically would mother join him; she only did if she wanted something from him. Mother married young, right after secondary school. Nineteen was her exact age father being twenty-nine. One year after their falling marriage they had Mycroft then five years later, a young Sherlock. They usually didn't speck, they only exchanged words when sitting down for dinner yet the dialog was the same

'How was your day dear?'

'Peachy.'

'Boys?'

'hm'

And for the rest of dinner the family stayed silent. On most days father would invite his associates to stay, for their meeting would carry on late in the night. Or mother would have her friends stay, for they all were stuck in the twenties daydreams.

Days were normally planed out around the house, friends of Sherlock's mother would appear, and then mother would go on asking Mindy, their housekeeper, to fetch tea. They would sit in the parlor, drink tea, and go outside to play a round or two of Croquet. Next they would have little sandwiches in the sitting room, and just talk a whole bunch.

Currently they were upholding there blabber fest in the parlor, conversing on how Ms. Alymy (recently widowed) had just gotten herself a tour of the states. Sherlock wasn't all too familiar with America, his brother used to tell him stories of it but all he really knew was from his history class but even then he only knew where to place it at on a map.

Silently he tip toed over to his mother's side taking hold of her string spoon. He gave it a sniff and promptly licked the sugar remnants off the silver. All before he could do anything he got a light, but demanding pop on the head.

"That's disgusting!" his mother ruled, with a sour taste in her voice. "Go wash out your mouth and stay out of the parlor, don't you dare start blubbering or your off to bed!" coal like eyes stared at the child, eyebrows crossed, a countenance frowned that was almost painted on like her makeup.

Tears that pricked at the boys eyes started to fall, but quickly he scampered out of the room to hide in the ball room. All but a grand piano occupied the room. Father had issued Mycroft to have lessons, but he had mastered the skill so quickly for a small child had forgotten the art out of boredom.

The ball room was one of Sherlock's go to places when he was sad, because not even Mindy entered the room. He didn't know why no one used the room; it was spacious and would be an excellent place to hold a party. But just like the rest of the house and its escapism feeling, it was abandon.

The dinner table was of one that was seen in films, long a stretched out, with the husband at one end and the wife at the other. Normally Sherlock and Mycroft would sit parallel to each other, but on the occasions of his father's men staying, Sherlock sat next to his brother.

Mindy dished out potato and carrot soup, bead, gravy, and mashed corn. The adults were all served red wine in tall glasses, while the children were given glasses of water.

Aside from the men talking amongst each other father looked over to his wife.

"Your day dear?"

"Mhh," steering her fork down she looked to her two boys, her eyes scammed over them as Sherlock gazed at his gravy, and Mycroft chewed and nibbled at his bread. "This is the fifth time I have been interrupted by the small one during tea. It's irritating," she remarked looking to her husband.

One of the men on his father's side looked towards the woman; his voice was ragged and matched his ruffed white beard. "When my younglings were small I got them a pet, yep a cat named Scot, shot him by the end of the year, but still, occupied them enough." The man smiled presently returning to dinner as mother mulled it over.

With a small smile she made a questioning statement that would change the life of the negated Sherlock "Alright, to-morrow were off to get a pet."


End file.
